


Armor

by Sarageek16



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angel AU, And Bible References, Angel!Derekel, Chosen!Stiles, Cuddling, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up Together, M/M, Mismashed Names, Supernatural References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarageek16/pseuds/Sarageek16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is one of the seven Chosen, children born with the mark of Michael. These children could change the tide of a heavenly war. Derekel is the slightly jaded angel is sent to watch over him until that time. Though Stiles gets himself into potential crises more than any other Chosen that the other angels have--except, possibly, Dean Winchester, who actively hunts monsters--Derekel manages. It isn't easy, but he does so with the help of the Timeline: an internal map of things that are meant to happen in Stiles' life. So long as allows certain events to naturally take place without interference, he is able to see dangers and stop them. To deviate from the timeline is death. Every angel knows that. </p><p>Stiles doesn't know the whys or hows of why a guardian angel popped into his life, but he's having the time of his life teaching him about the Force and feeding him ice cream. And those eyebrows. Hilarious. Everything's great--that is, until Stiles' mom gets sick and Derek refuses to heal her. But Stiles will throw himself into dangers on purpose before he allows her to die because of some stupid timeline.</p><p>The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armor

 

_**** _

__

_**Ephesians 6:13** _ **-** _Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand._

 

*

 

The first time Stiles actually sees him, he's five years old and lost in the mall.

 

There are tears pouring down his cheeks, and he's wandering around, looking frantically for his mommy—but he'd been a _bad boy_ and had run off to see the new toy, and she wasn't fast enough to catch him. At first, it had been fun, but now he can't see her and he's hungry and tired and has to go to the bathroom.

 

He doesn't wet himself, because that would be a bad thing to do. Instead, he wipes his tears away with a chubby fist and tearfully asks a man for directions.

 

The man that he asks is tall and broad, and has a smile like a shark. Still, Stiles' mommy says that not everybody is as scary as they look. So Stiles swallows. “'Scuse me, sir,” he warbles, “do you know where the bathroom is?”  
  
The tall man's shark-smile gets even bigger. “Of course I do.” he puts a hand on Stiles' shoulder and kneels down. “Do you have an adult with you?”  
  
Stiles sniffs loudly. “I lost my mommy.”

 

“I'm very sorry to hear that.” The man _doesn't_ sound very sorry. Still, when he holds out a hand, Stiles' accepts it. Daddy says not to talk to strangers, but this seems like a _nice_ stranger. “Come. I'll take you to the bathroom.”  


“Thank you,” Stiles says, polite like his parents want him to be, and takes the hand that the man offers him. His heart is a quick-tap in his chest: he'll use the bathroom like a good boy, and then maybe the man will help him find his mommy. That would be nice.

 

There's a lot of walking, and people bump into Stiles, but the man seems to find the place. Stiles can't read yet: he looks up at the door with no signs and squints. “This is a bathroom?”  
  
“Yes.” the man says calmly, and opens the door.

 

 _But there's no signs,_ Stiles thinks crossly. It's all he gets to think before he sees the inside of the dark room. He opens his mouth, fear suddenly striking him—and then he's pushed in, and the man's locking the door and smiling in the dim light. This time, it's _really_ scary. Stiles starts to cry from fear.

 

“Mommy,” he demands in a shaky voice. He loses the fight, and his pants are wet, too, which makes hi cry even harder.

 

“No,” the man says, reaching for him with wide, fat hands. They touch his face, his hair. His breath smells like bad fish. Stiles shudders with breathless sobs for reasons that he doesn't understand. “Not your mommy.”  
  
“Unhand him.”  


They both jump at the voice: the fat hand in Stiles' hair clenches and he cries out, even as they both look at the newcomer.

 

It's hot and dark in this closet, and all Stiles can see is a taller silhouette and glowing blue eyes.

 

“Who the fuck are you?” The bad man demands. “And how did you get in here?”

 

“I am an angel of the Lord,” the boy replies. He steps closer, so Stiles can see a little. He's not actually all that old: probably eight, bigger than Stiles but still much smaller than the man, with his dark hair and weird eyebrows.

 

“Yeah,” bad man says, “And I'm Santa Claus. Mind your own goddamn business and get outta here, kid, before you get it too.” Stiles squirms; the hand in his hair tightens until his eyes are stretched. He starts to cry in earnest.

 

“Don't leave,” he begs the boy. “Please don't.”

 

The boy doesn't look like he's going to budge an _inch_. He doesn't look at Stiles: his glowing eyes are locked on the man. “Last chance.”

 

“Listen here, you little shit--”

 

And suddenly, Stiles is out of the man's hands and behind the boy. There's a small wind—and then the big, shark man is gone.

 

Stiles blinks up at the boy through the water in his eyes. His chest heaves with pants. “Where'd he go?”  
  
“The middle of Antarctica. If he's lucky, he'll survive the twenty mile walk to civilization.” The way he says 'if he's lucky' sounds like he's not going to be very lucky.

 

“Oh.” Stiles didn't know all of those big words, but he did know that Antarctica was cold and snowy. He shivers. The wet on his jeans scratch and hurt, and he squirms even more.

 

“I messed myself,” he says plaintively. The boy sent the bad man to Antarctica—he feels like he can trust him not to make fun of him, and if he does, he'll kick him.

 

“Oh. Here.” Two fingers, hot like a fever, press to Stiles' forehead. In an instant, the snot and tears on his face and the wet on his pants have disappeared. Stiles even feels a lot better, like he's gotten one of his mommy's hugs.

 

He marvels. “You're really an angel?” he asks, wide eyed. He trembles a bit—out of fear or excitement, he's not sure. Mommy says that he's a trembly person.

 

“Yes. My name is Derekel.”  


“Derekel.” Stiles wrinkles his nose. “That's a weird name. You got wings?”  
  
“I do have wings,” the boy corrects. “Yes. You simply cannot see them. Now come: let's go and find your mother.”

 

Another press of fingers, and suddenly they're downstairs in the mall, in one of the side hallways. Stiles spots his mommy almost immediately—she's red eyed, like she's been crying, and she's talking to a man in a police uniform. Stiles' heart leaps—he beams at Derekel.

 

“She's right there!” he says excitedly.  
  
“I know, Stiles.” he places a hand on Stiles' shoulder, looking very serious and grown up for a kid. “But before you go to her, I must do something first. It's not yet time, you see.”  
  
Stiles opens his mouth to ask what—and fingers are pressing to his forehead again. This time, they come with a warm, deep sensation, like he's dipped his head in hot cocoa. Stiles closes his eyes and whimpers, leaning into the strange sensation.  
  
And then it's gone, and he's blinking at an unfamiliar boy with black hair, weird eyebrows, and sad, oddly colored eyes. He is kneeling in front of him.

 

“I,” Stiles swallows. “Who are you? Where's my mommy?”

 

The boy, real quiet from where he's kneeling on front of Stiles, points. Stiles whirls around and shouts and she sees him, and it's like she sags. Stiles beams and turns around to thank the strange, sad boy.

 

But he's gone.

 

*

 

Derekel watches the tearful reunion concealed from view. Mrs. Stilinski is pressing her forehead to Stiles', one of those human shows of affection that the angel doesn't quite understand but nevertheless enjoys. He'd had someone to press their forehead against his, but now...now he's just glad Stiles has it.

 

His direct interference before had been unprecedented, but an odd sense of panic had taken hold when that... _creature_ had dragged Stiles into the closet. No matter. The memory is gone, and the time line hasn't been altered.

 

The Stilinskis and their bright souls will be safe for the rest of the week. With one last look at Stiles, who is shamefaced at his scolding mother, Derekel leaves.

 

He flies somewhere in the Himalayan mountains, where a minor avalanche is going on. Derekel's vessel shudders once in the cold before Grace takes over and warms him from the inside. The angel calmly walks over to a ledge and sits, watching God's creation in progress.

 

He is not surprised when another angel joins him a few moments later.

 

“Castiel.” he nods barely in acknowledgment.

 

Castiel had fought beside Derekel for thousands of years. The other angels treated him somewhat coldly: he was an odd one, the angel of Thursday. But he was loyal to a fault, and Derekel's best friend.

 

The other angel had taken an appearance similar to Derekel's in age. His new body has dark, messy hair, ethereal bright blue eyes, and was wearing, oddly enough, a ridiculously oversized trench coat over his t-shirt and jeans. Derekel raised a single eyebrow at it. Castiel's body hadn't come with _that._

 

Castiel hesitates, then answers the silent question. “Dean gave it to me.” His voice, even as a child, is gravelly.

 

Ah.

 

Dean Winchester is one of the only few Chosen whose time line allowed knowledge of their angel's existence at a young age. Derekel supposed it was natural: the child does have knowledge of the supernatural, after all. Better to acclimate him _before_ he was suspicious of everything in the world.

 

Derekel eyes the clumsily rolled up sleeves. “You are doing well with him, then?”

 

It has not been easy for Castiel. For a long while, his human was angry with him—their mother died last year, and Castiel could not interfere. The time line was not to be altered. Now, John Winchester was making the job even more difficult by recklessly chasing the dangers of the supernatural world.  
  
“Yes.” There is a barely-there fond smile on Castiel's lips. It makes Derekel glad. “I do not understand humans. Their culture is— _confusing_ to say the least. But Dean is showing me the most wonderful things, because I'm keeping him and his younger brother, Sam Winchester, from becoming 'vulture food'.” his eyes gleam, seemingly without conscious decision. “Have you tried any of the human cusine, brother?”

 

“I haven't.” Derek tilts his head. “There is no need to. We do not require sustenance.”

 

“I know. However, hamburgers are...hm.” Castiel reaches into the pocket of his ridiculous trench coat and withdraws a wrapped package. “Dean insisted.” he explains, putting it in Derek's lap. “I am glad he did.”

 

“Castiel.” Derekel picks up the hamburger carefully. “I nearly changed the time line, today.”  
  
Castiel grows serious immediately, his brow coming together. “Is it fixed?”

  
“It is. I directly interfered when I shouldn't have, though.” It is still strange to Derek, that he reacted like that.  
  
Castiel is watching Derek knowingly. “The humans,” he says slowly, “Your charge. It is not strange to...” he hesitates.

 

Derekel twists his body to look at him fully. “To what, brother?”

 

“To care,” Castiel answers firmly.

  
Derekel's head jerks. “Excuse me?” His body's voice goes high without his permission.  
  
“We are to love all of our Father's creatures, are we not?” Castiel explains stiffly. He fingers the fabric of his trench coat. His gift from the child that he was assigned to watch, who did not have to give it but wanted to. “Father himself ordered it. And it is not difficult, from Heaven, even with all of their mistakes. But we are on earth, now. I think...I think we are closer. We are involved.”  
  
“But that doesn't mean—I don't _care._ Stiles is merely an assignment.”  
  
“And today?” Castiel's strange eyes are piercing. “Your nearly messing up the time line was a--”  
  
“A mistake,” Derek informs him, “that will not be repeated.”  
  
They watch in silence as the avalanche comes to a crescendo. It had gone unnoticed, in their discussion. Derekel breathes, watching the reckless slide of rock and snow.

 

“Does this mean you care for Dean Winchester?” he asks, without looking at his companion.

 

Castiel shifts in his seat. “If I did,” he murmurs, barely heard over the noise of the avalanche. He licks his lips—so human. “If I did, I believe that our Father would not think it terrible. So yes. I may care for Dean Winchester. I may even care for Sam, his brother.”  


“And the assignment? Our missions?” Derekel challenges, if only to see how his younger brother will react.

 

“Are still of the utmost importance. Oh--” his bright eyes grow distant, watching a future that only he can see. “I must go. Dean is attempting to do cartwheels on the road again.”

 

He leaves in a flurry of clumsy wings. Derekel looks at the spot that he just vacated and sighs again.

  
“Our Father would not mind,” he confesses, alone on his cold mountain. “But I would.”

 

*

 

Stiles grows.

 

It is fascinating to watch, despite the fact that Derekel has seen millions of humans come and go. His charge is a bright, light soul. He laughs every day. He is strong and righteous, and Derekel is not _at all_ proud when, at the age of eight, he punches that menace Jackson Whittemore in the face and makes a new best friend.

 

Scott McCall smiles as much as Stiles, if not more. He is an asthmatic and he has trouble keeping up with the excitable boy, but he tries anyway. Derekel grudgingly decides that he is an adequate playmate for his Chosen.

 

In the six years that Stiles learns and Derekel watches and waits, he rescues Stiles from mortal peril two hundred and thirty-six times. It is not difficult, usually. A truck driver who's fallen asleep at the wheel is prodded awake. A man who wants to rob a grocery store (where Stiles and his mother are breathlessly laughing after an argument about cereal brands) trips and knocks himself unconscious on the sidewalk.

 

Some are more difficult. Today, for instance, he actually has to _shove_ the Sheriff into attention when Stiles tries to rescue a drowning person and is pulled under himself.

 

Ten year old Stiles coughs up what seems like gallons of pool water with a grimace, his mother rubbing his back. Rhys Parish is utterly ungrateful, looking disdainfully at his Chosen and stomping off. Derekel flies away to go and visit to another angel, Boyd, who will _not_ look at him with stupidly piercing eyes that say _Still don't care?_

 

(If he stays, the Parish boy will be no more than a pile of smote ash on the patio.)

 

He finds Boyd in Orlando, Florida watching Erica Reyes, his charge. She is playing by herself at a crowded beach, her small hands carefully patting down each grain of sand into a lopsided castle. Her mother and father stand to the side, just within shouting distance, and take pictures of each other.

 

Boyd is standing at the very edge of the water when Derekel appears, invisible with his hands in his pockets. He isn't alone: on his other side is an angel that Derekel had barely interacted with. Isaakel, he remembers.

  
The curly-haired angel tilts his head. “Derekel. You are upset.”  
  
Human faces are so _expressive_. Derekel would hate having all of his emotions just _there_ for the world to see if it wasn't near-impossible to keep things from his brothers and sisters anyway.  
  
“Close call,” Derekel grunts, rolling his shoulders. The seawater licks at his boots.

 

“They happen too much, don't you think?” Isaakel regards him understandingly. He has chosen a male form with bright brown eyes and dimples. Derekel supposes that it is...fitting for the angel.

 

“They do,” Boyd acknowledges gravely. He is frowning as he turns, watching Erica's castle fall. The small girl appears to be dangerously close to crying for a moment. As they watch, her trembling lower lip stills and she resolutely picks up the green plastic shovel and begins again.

 

Erica was diagnosed with juvenile myoclonic epilepsy when she was six years old. Boyd has always been one of Derekel's calmer, more accepting brothers, but he can see that it pains him not to be able to heal her right now. But the time line...

 

“You are Watching Danny Mahealani,” he changes the subject abruptly, looking at Isaakel.

 

The other angel sticks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and smiles widely. It seems that Castiel is not the only one overly fond of his charge. “Yes. He is very nice.”  
  
As Isaakel launches into the virtues of his own charge, Derekel nods along and lets himself be distracted. Boyd watches Erica build her sandcastle.

 

Maybe he cares a little bit.

 

*

 

The next time they meet—the _right_ time--Stiles is twelve years old and running away from home.

 

The Beacon Hills Reserve is huge. The trees, bare from winter, tower overhead like skeletons as Stiles picks his way over logs and sticks. He has his backpack on his back: it's packed full to the brim with a pair of clothes, a blanket, four cans of Mountain Dew, and candy that Stiles had stashed from Halloween. He's perfectly prepared for the night.

  
He's a bit disappointed that his best friend, Scott, didn't want to run away with him. But he could understand: Scott had asthma, so his mom tended to freak out when he was out of sight for more than a few hours.

 

It is cold, so cold that Stiles can see his breath. But that's okay—once he finds that cave that his mom took him to, he'll be able to settle in there and camp out for the night.

 

 _Better out here than there,_ he thinks, kicking a rock. The sound of his parents' shouts are still ringing in his ears. It's five days until Christmas and his mom has to leave to a conference in San Francisco tomorrow. She won't be back until Christmas Eve. Stiles is unhappy about this. The Sheriff, Stiles' dad, is even unhappier.

 

So he'll sleep out here tonight. He won't have to deal with them arguing, and he'll also be able to check off 'camping' on his bucket list. It's like, totally a win-win situation here.

  
Stiles clomps through the forest with his cell phone in hand. The sun is already going down: maybe they've noticed that he's gone? From the way that they were shouting, he doubts it.

 

Two hours later, Stiles comes to three conclusions:

 

One: His parents have definitely noticed that he's gone by now.

 

Two: Peeing in bushes is not as easy as it looks on TV.

  
And three: He isn't going to find the cave.

 

He drops his backpack in a clearing and sits down onto a dead log. The snow on the log seeps in through his jeans. The sensation of it's barely noticed, though, because he's so cold that warm water would probably hurt right now. He rubs his shaking hands together and looks around.

 

The clearing looks like something out a Disney movie: white, untouched snow, the waxing moon shining palely down on Stiles—even the log that's slowly numbing Stiles' butt fits the part. He sighs, tired and cold and a little bit scared (just a little!) and takes out another Mountain Dew. Maybe, if he's lucky, he'll get to make the snow yellow again.

  
“Stiles.”

 

He chokes. Badly. In fact, there's a long time spent sputtering and looking at the figure in front of him with blurry eyes. Even if he had the sense to run, he wouldn't be able to because of pure lack of air. He makes the effort anyway, of course—his dad didn't raise a total fool. Lurching off the bench, Stiles tries to stagger for freedom--

 

\--And is abruptly grabbed by the arm and hauled back onto his log. His knees buckle with the pressure and he ends up slamming backward into the snow. He stares, dazed, up at the dark profile of the figure above him. In the light, Stiles can make out brooding eyebrows, dark hair and a mouth in a hard line.

 

“If you want money, I've got nothing on me but old Halloween candy and soda.”

 

“I don't want _money._ ” The voice is oddly young, for a robber. Stiles struggles to stand up, biting back curses as snow gets into uncomfortable places. It makes it easier to ignore his shaking hands and the sinking feeling that he might be shanked tonight.

 

When he finally gets a clear view, though, his fear turns into indignation.

 

“You're just a kid!” he yelps, whipping an accusing finger at his attacker. He's always had a smart mouth, always will have one, and he shows when he snarks, “What, mommy didn't give you enough allowance money? It's called getting a job, buddy--”  
  
“I just said that I don't want your money.” The boy looking at him seems a little older than Stiles, if his taller frame and seriousness is anything to go by. He seems vaguely familiar, which, if this is actually someone that Stiles has met before—yeah that would _suck_. He is pale and scowling.

 

Stiles wraps his arms protectively. “Well,” he says with false bravado, “You sure ain't getting' none of this.” He shimmies his skinny body in a way that makes the scowl become even blacker. “So you can just go and find someone else to creep out.”

 

“I'm afraid that's impossible: I happen to be stuck with you and your particular brand of idiocy.”

 

Stiles gapes up at him. “Excuse me?”

 

“I spoke fluently with perfect English.”  
  
“Was that supposed to be the weird, nerdy version of 'did I stutter'?” Stiles sputters incredulously.

 

The boy seems to ignore this. Instead, he looks Stiles up and down and frowns even more deeply. “You are in no way suited to withstand the elements tonight.”

 

“You're the one not wearing a jacket!” Stiles protests, because it's true. All this teenager is wearing is a black shirt, black jeans, and black shoes. Obviously, _somebody_ has a problem with primary colors.

 

“I have no need for your crude forms of human protection,” the teenager sniffs, looking at Stiles' big--soaked--red jacket pointedly. Actually _sniffs._ Like, what is this. “I am an angel of the lord.”  
  
There's a surreal version of deja vu for Stiles that sends him reeling, like he's fallen off of the monkey bars and onto his head again.

 

“Yeah, and I'm part hippogriff.” It's Stiles' turn to sniff. The cold shoots up his nose and makes him cough though, so it's really not as graceful as he could have wished.

 

The boy's face screws up with confusion. “What is a—never mind.” he shakes his head. “I suppose you want proof?”  
  
“If you want to whip out your imaginary wings or whatever, go ahead.” Stiles plops his butt on his log again. “This ought to be entertaining.” he mutters, half to himself.  
  
The “angel” looks at him sharply. “Kindly keep your lack of faith to yourself.” he snaps.

 

“Fine, fine.” Stiles waves a hand. “Whatever.” He can't wait to tell Scott about this. It's not every day you meet a crackpot in the woods in the dead of winter, especially not in Beacon Hills. And yeah, at the end of this he might have to run, but for now he's going sit back and laugh.

 

The boy's eyes, before a bright hazel color, start to glow. They are an eerie white-blue, like lightning.

 

“Hey,” Stiles voice comes out kind of squeaky, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Hey, man, are you okay? Your eyes are--”  
  
The kid rolls his shoulders, flexing, and in the light from white moon Stiles can see shadows catching across the trees behind Derek. A wind picks up, rustling his black hair. The light in the clearing grows until Stiles is almost blinking from the sudden golden light.  
  
And finally, the shadows form in an extremely familiar shape.  
  
 _Wings,_ his ADHD mind informs his helpfully. _Those shadows look an awful lot like wings._

 

Stiles is left gaping like an idiot as the light in the clearing and the kid's eyes slowly fades away to nothing.

 

The teenager seems faintly smug at his speechlessness. “In case you do not believe me even then,” he says, walking forward, “I have something that belongs to you.” He steps forward, _way_ into Stiles' personal space, and before Stiles can skitter back he presses two fingers to the middle of his forehead. He leaves them there for only a second before he steps back.

 

Stiles' slack mouth falls even farther. And then he's on his feet, memories slamming into him.

 

“ _Derek!?”_

 

“Derekel,” he corrects stiffly.

 

“You _took my memories!?”_ Stiles is torn between shock and outrage. He settles for a befuddled combination of both.

 

“You were five.” he says levelly. As if he's totally rational. “Your memories were traumatic. I saw the route that your life would go, had I let you keep the memories of that man--” he sneers the word _man--_ “and I did not like the consequences. So, I took them.”

 

Stiles sputters as much as he can with his teeth suddenly chattering. The light from before had been kind of warm, and the absence of it-combined with his wet outer clothes—was starting to make him aware of just how cold he was. Derek folds his arms across his chest and waits, looking aggressive. His limbs are long and boyish, but he looks like he might be able to knock someone out if necessary.

 

_That's because he's an angel kid, stupid._

 

This takes some frantic thought. And then Stiles decides.

 

“Dude,” he breathes, “this is so. Cool.”  
  
Derek, if possible, looks even more constipated. “What.”  
  
“I have my own guardian angel!” Stiles crows. He crowds close, pokes one of the arms that Derek's holding to his chest. “Are you in a vessel? How old are you? Have you ever smited someone? Is it smited, or smote? Does it matter? How old are you? Dude, you dropped that guy in _Antarctica._ Did he live? Or did a polar bear--”

 

A hand covers his mouth, gentle yet unmovable. Oddly colored eyes gleam at him. “Be. Quiet. I am here to keep you from being mauled by a mountain lion, or dying of hypothermia, or choking on the last Fun Sized Snickers' Bar in your backpack, the one that you're saving for last because it's 'special'. Once these tasks are complete, I will leave. I am not here to answer your mundane questions. You will not talk. You will not ask things that you have no business knowing. If you understand this, nod.”  
  
Stiles shakes his head.

 

Derekel scowls. “That is not the answer I am looking for.”  
  
Stiles licks his palm.

 

The scowl grows even deeper. He actually looks like he's about to get his smite on, to be honest, before the sound of something that Stiles can't hear makes him snap his head toward the forest.

 

Stiles holds his breath as those eyes take on a distinctly _predatory_ gleam. And then Derek removes his hand, snaps out, “Stay here,” and stomps off into the dark trees.

 

Stiles contemplates actually staying for like, three seconds before he scoops up his bag starts stumbling after him.

 

He finds Derek standing over the body of a (now dead) mountain lion. His face is impassive as he kneels down, places his fingers against the eyes of the animal and closes them, muttering something in an unfamiliar language. Without turning around, he intones, “I told you to stay behind.”

 

Stiles manages not to jump. “Yeah, well, I'm not very good at following the rules.”  
  
“Trust me, I know.” Derekel says in the same tone. He rises smoothly—the movement's so fluid that it actually _has_ to be supernatural—and turns. He doesn't look all that pleased. “I'm taking you home now.”  
  
“What? Why? I thought we were having a nice 'Stand By Me' moment here! And why did you kill the--”

 

“I don't understand that reference.” Derek walks over, ignoring the last question. Stiles scrambles backward, but a large hand reaches out, fists his shirt to bright him closer, and then the two fingers--

 

Dang it. They're back in Stiles' room.  
  
“Did you fly us here?” Stiles asks eagerly. “I heard wings.”  
  
“Stop asking questions.”

 

The younger boy huffs and dumps his book bag on the ground, flopping into his desk chair. “Geez, loosen up man. Thanks for ruining my first camping experience by the way. That was fantastic.”  
  
“You were going to die of hypothermia,” Derek repeats. He looks young and tense, standing in the middle of Stiles' room. The only other people who have ever been in here are Stiles' parents and Scott and some other people that Stiles can't remember but doesn't particularly care about.

 

Stiles waves a hand. “Details.” He says flippantly, spinning a little in his chair. His mom had found it for him at the Clarence's yard sale. It is _awesome._

 

“I really wish you'd take more care with your own life.” Derek looks disapproving.

 

“Why should I? I've got an _angel on my shoulder._ ”  
  
Derek frowns. “I live in heaven, not on your shoulder.”

 

“It's a figure of speech, dude.” Stiles leaps out of his seat to go behind Derek. It makes the angel tense. “Can I see your wings? Like, for real?”  
  
Derek turns around. “No.”  
  
“Why not?” He's not whining. He's not.

 

“Because I said so.” he grabs Stiles' hand and brings it down from where the kid was reaching for his shoulder blades. Stiles gets a dark glower before Derek releases the hand. “Stay out of trouble.”

 

“What--”

 

Derek disappears with sound of beating wings. Stiles scowls at the spot where he'd left, but then his parents are bursting into his room, talking over each other, and he has other problems.

 

Dang it.

 

*

 

It's a week after Christmas, and Stiles is kneeling beside his bed, hands put together. “Hey. Um. So. Derekel, from the mountain on high, le casa de God, heaven and all of that—it'd be great if you could, you know, come and see me? Because that would be--”

 

“If you pester me about my wings again, I'm leaving.”

 

Stiles whirls around, a huge smile on his face. Derek looks exactly the same—tall, pale and scowly.

 

“I didn't think you'd come, but _dude_ you totally did _._ This is awesome.”

 

“You prayed.” Derek looks miffed about the fact that Stiles dared. “What do you need?”  
  
“I didn't actually think it'd work.” Stiles scoots forward into Derek's personal space, near quivering with excitement. “That's not the point. If I said a brand new Hummer, would you be able to get it for me?”  
  
“The mechanics of getting it would be very simple. But stealing is a sin, and you are eleven years of age.” Derek folds his arms across his chest. “So no. Try again.”  
  
“I'm _bored_.” Stiles walks over to his bed and flops backward. “My parents took my laptop and iPod and my presents and everything. It's _terrible._ ”

 

“You ran away from home.” Derek points out, still standing stiffly.

 

“I did not run away. I went ten minutes down the road and was gonna come back the next morning. It wasn't a big deal.”  
  
“Be that as it may, you still made them worry.”  
  
“'Be that as it may'? Seriously? How old _are_ you? You look, like, fourteen years old but that's a vessel, right? Like, there's a person here that you're possessing, or something?”

 

There's a really, really long pause while Derek seems to debate whether or not to answer. And then he says, reluctantly, “No.”  
  
“No?” Stiles sits up from where he was staring at the ceiling. “You're actually what an angel looks like?”  
  
“An angel's true form is too much for the human brain to process, and vessels—as you call them—are very, very rare. It's easier to find a willing soul in Heaven to use as an image, then ask one of the higher angels construct a body. I found a young boy named Miguel who seemed appropriate enough.”

 

“...you're a clone.”  
  
Derekel tilts his head. “If that is easier for your to process, then yes. Now, if you're finished wasting my time, I need to be on my way.” He disappears.

  
Stiles snorts to the empty room. “Would it kill him to say 'goodbye'? Just once?”

 

*

 

Guarding Stiles now that the boy has knowledge of him is somewhat easier than before.

 

For one thing, Derek—as Stiles refers to him--can count on him calling anytime that's even remotely bored. The angel gets used to the smell of corn chips and teenage boy, the happy babble of his charge as he explains the rivarly between Batman and Superman.

 

“Apparently, there is 'no contest'.” Derekel tells Castiel. “Despite his lack of superpowers, Batman wins.”

 

The other angel, who has grown into his trench coat somewhat, nods sagely. “Dean thinks the same. What is Stiles' position on pie?”  
  
Derek is unsure. Stiles eats everything with the same amount of gusto. The only thing that he's heard him preach about is curly fries and milk. (Admittedly, curly fries are rather good.)

 

With a nod to his brother, Derekel leaves Africa to find out about Stiles and pies.

 

(He's been doing this a lot lately, going to Stiles for things that are not required.)

 

(He will stop.)

 

(He won't.)

 

*

 

And so it goes: Stiles gets ungrounded, cooks with his mother, lounges around the police station, goes to school, hangs out with Scott, crushes on Lydia Martin and pesters Derek. Sometimes the angel doesn't answer his prayers. Most of the time he does, and most of the time he'll stay.

 

He answers Stiles' endless amount of questions (if angels are real, what else could be?!) and submits to taste tests (“You've never had _ice cream!?_ What kind of sick, twisted person doesn't instill the need for ice cream in his kids!?” “You're blaspheming against my Father, Stiles.”) and watches movies (“Because you need the Disney education, Derek. You just do.”) The angel will even sit and listen to Stiles wax lyrical about Lydia being his soul mate, and _no one_ does that, not even Scott.

 

Stiles falls asleep to Derek's grumpy face and wakes up to Derek's grumpy face. Usually even in the same position, if the angel hasn't been traveling to, like, Narnia or something.

 

On a warm August night, when they are laying on the roof and Stiles is pointing to random constellations for Derek to name, the angel says, out of the blue, “There is a war in Heaven.”  
  
Stiles freezes. Derek doesn't wait for him to catch up.

 

“On one side, there's Gabriel, the archangel, and his followers.” The angel holds out his palm, wide and calloused, and bright blue light slowly starts to swirl into a figure. Stiles carefully scoots closer, taking in the little golden man with the happy face and the long sword in his hand. Derek has even given him a tiny smile. Stiles is kind of delighted with this display: besides disappearing and reappearing, and that one time he helped Stiles move his furniture around in, like, thirty seconds, Derek doesn't really do much in the way of miracles. “We--”  
  
“We?” Stiles squeaks. He can't help it: Derek's fighting a _war?_

  
Derek gives him a _look._ “We,” he says with no room for interruption, “are fighting the archangel Raphael and her own garrison.” On Derek's other, slowly lifted palm, a whiter, yet somehow colder light forms. The tiny person on there is a woman with stern features.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“They want to start the apocalypse.”

 

Stiles gapes at him.

 

Derek smiles, a tiny thing that has no humor. “You will catch mosquitoes. I believe that's how the saying goes?”  
  
“Flies,” Stiles corrects him, numb. “You'll catch flies, is the saying. Where is—“ he flails a bit-- “the other archangels in all of this!? Where is _God_ in all of this!?”  
  
“God has 'left the building', you would say. The angels believe that he is somewhere on this earth. Michael, the first archangel, is dead.”

 

For the second time that night, Stiles is caught with his mouth hanging open.

 

“Michael? As in _God's fuckin' sword?_ Dude who put Satan in the ground, all of that!? He's _dead?_ ”

 

“You'll watch your tongue,” Derek says, unusually sharp even for his old, grumpy self. Stiles snaps his mouth shut.

 

They lapse into an awkward silence. Awkward for Stiles, actually, because for all that he knows Michael and Derek could have been bosom buddies. It would maybe explain why Derek sometimes looks like he's that dude on that mountain from the Greek legends, holding up the sky on his shoulders. (That could also be the stress of having to constantly save an accident-prone fourteen year old boy, but—details.)

 

Finally, Stiles nudges Derek's leg with a socked foot. “Your war. How's it going?”  
  
The angel looks thankful for the sudden change in subject. “It's not really constant battles,” he explains. “Not the way that you're picturing. We haven't done that since...” he trails off.

 

“Since?” Stiles prods, because he's a curious, stupid person.

 

Derek gazes at him. His eyes are still that oddly, green-blue-hazel color. They are clouded with a weird sort of pain, raw emotion that looks strange in the angel's eyes. Some days, Derek's like a cyborg. Others, he's like this: capable of feeling and almost human. It makes Stiles' _everything_ hurt. “Since the days of war against Lucifer,” he answers finally.

 

“Oh.” Is all Stiles can say.  
  
Dude. Maybe _Lucifer_ was the one Derek was all buddy-buddy with. How awkward would that be?

 

Derek exhales, hard. It's a human thing. Stiles can't help but smile, even as he folds his knees against his chest and wraps his skinny arms around them. “So...you guys don't physically fight a lot.”  
  
“We almost never get tired,” Derek explains. “We don't require food, nor water. Speed and strength is equal for most angels of the same rank. And from birth, we are all equipped with a weapon that can kill one another. Both sides are evenly matched. If we fought, it would be a bloody massacre. So instead, Gabriel and Raphael talk and...” he looks like he's about to say something else, but he breathes out again. “...And talk,” he finishes lamely.

 

Stiles isn't convinced by that second 'talk', but he has a brain wave. “Like the Cold War!”

 

“Yes.” Derek gives him a tiny smile in reward. “Like your Cold War.”

 

Stiles presses his chin against the top of his knees until it's hard to breathe. Derek gives him a look. He stops, lifting his chin away. “So...why are you here with me?”

 

“To guard you.” Derek throws out his standard response.

 

“And why do you need to guard me?”  
  
He hasn't gotten a straight answer to this question. Derek either leaves, shuts up for the rest of the day, or flat out changes the subject to something that Stiles, with his short attention span, will latch onto. However, tonight Derek looks genuinely torn.

 

He says, softly, finally, “Because you're special, Stiles.”

 

And that just isn't a real answer at all.

 

Stiles breathes in and puffs his cheeks. He lets the air out and summons a smile. “So are there names for your sides? Like the Redcoats and Continentals? Have you ever had to--” he huffs out semi-hysterical laughter. “Have you ever had to say 'the British are coming!'”

 

Derek growls and Stiles laughs under the stars.

 

*

 

Stiles puts together a notebook-- _An Idiot's Guide to Derekel_ , _by Stiles Stilinski--_ and ignores Derek's glower as he writes down whatever the angel will give him. He also writes down other things in the margins, such as:

 

  * _Can talk to animals. Scowls when I ask about the inner thoughts of chipmunks._

  * _Knew Adam, says he was a bad conversationalist, but Eve was a riot._

  * _Growls sometimes._

  * _Likes to watch people sleep. Likes to watch people in general. CreeperAngel strikes again!_

  * _Says I have a destiny._

  * _Has achieved sarcasm, apparently, because also says this destiny is not picking my toenails, despite how much I do it. Ha. Ha._

  * _Whatev. Like I don't know about his secret Celine Dion addiction. Should have never showed him Titanic..._

  * _Still has a stick up angelic butt about the wing thing._




 

By the time Stiles is sixteen and Derek's body is eighteen, he has mastered eyebrow speak. Derek thinks he's _so_ impassive, but Stiles can look at those things and tell _exactly_ what he's feeling, if not thinking.

 

When Stiles announced that he was trying out for the lacrosse team? A deep, disapproving furrow.

 

“But you're so skinny,” Derek said in a—not really rare, though he was learning—moment of insensitivity. “Lacrosse is a rough sport.”  
  
Stung, since his dad had just said the same thing less than five minutes ago, Stiles had snapped, “What does it matter to you? It's not like I'm going to die during a game, and you're useless for anything but my imminent death. I'll be fine.”  
  
Derek did not comment when he came back a week later from practice, feeling like crap. Instead, he shut the book that he'd been reading and stood, his mouth in a thin line.

 

“If you say 'I told you so', I'm gonna--”  
  
“Shut up.” Derek guided him to the bed, half-pushing, half laying him on his front. Stiles wasn't sure _what_ exactly he was about to do until hot hands ventured up the back of his shirt.

 

He stiffened all over. “Derek.” His voice came out high and strangled.

 

Derek ignored him in favor or rubbing his palms all over Stiles' aching back. Slowly, the temperature of his skin increased along with pressure until Stiles' toes were curling with the pleasure of it, the heat relaxing his sore muscles.

 

“Better?”

 

“Mrppgrph.”

 

When he was done reducing Stiles to little more than pudding, Derek walked over to the desk and picked up the thick book that he'd been reading, showing Stiles the title of it. _A Beginner's Guide to Lacrosse._

 

“This had a wealth of good information,” he said casually. “I think I know enough to help, at least.”

 

Stiles was already falling asleep, but he'd managed to smile. “Y're awesome,” he had slurred.

 

Derek had smiled, and all was forgiven.

 

So when Stiles says, conversationally, “So my mom keeps getting these headaches,” and Derek's eyebrows go _up_ , then _down_ , then _straight_ , Stiles knows they've got a problem.

 

“Woah,” he says jokingly, trying to get rid of the bad feeling in his stomach. “Your eyebrows just took a trip all around the world.”

 

Derek's back is stiffer than a board. He's grown, now: over the summer, Stiles got longer, but Derek grew longer _and_ broader, like he's been exercising his human body.

 

Derek's changing body had been hilariously awkward.

 

“You're growing,” Stiles had explained. “Your body's human, right? It changes? So that means you're gonna have to deal with some awkward human stuff.”

 

Shaving, for one. Stiles'd had to hit Google to learn how to do that one, since he hardly had body hair to speak of, let alone cut off. Derek, however had the body of an sixteen year old and looked like he was three hairs away from going into hobo territory. They took a razor from Stiles' parents' bathroom, a pink one, and Stiles sat on his bathroom counter while Derek stood as still as a statue and let his human shave him. The end result had been strange but satisfactory, and Derek slowly learned how to do it himself.

 

The younger teen was just glad that Derek healed almost immediately.  
  
Getting a haircut was much less simple, but Derek zapped them out of town to a barber's shop. He'd let Stiles pick out a haircut—though his response to the mohawk suggestion had been an adamant _no—_ and the barber gave Stiles a lollipop to suck on as he cut Derek's black, silky hair. It was almost weird that the shavings weren't glowing gold or something. While they were there, Stiles got his normal buzz cut again.

 

Everything else was relatively simple: the angel cleaned himself or whatever with his super powers if he started to get funky and any...other matters were solved without Stiles' help.

 

Sitting next to him, Stiles is uncomfortably aware that is best friend looks somewhat like a GQ model. But right now, that doesn't matter: Stiles' mother does.

 

“Well?” he asks, somewhat impatiently. “Do you know what's wrong?”  
  
“You'll know when you need to, Stiles,” Derek says, reluctant and curling in on himself like he's expecting a blow. The last time he'd looked like that, Stiles had broken his leg four hours later.

 

“I'm supposed to keep you from dying,” Derek had snapped, when Stiles had demanded why the angel hadn't prevented it. “Nothing more, nothing less. I can't always protect you from yourself, Stiles.”  
  
And admittedly, skating down that rocky slope _had_ been pretty stupid. But still.

 

Now, Derek looks this side of miserable. Derekel. As in, the angel of the Lord who once sent a man to Antarctica wilderness without blinking.

 

“But--”

 

“ _You'll know when you need to.”_

 

Derek leaves without meeting Stiles' eyes and without saying goodbye.

 

Stiles lets out a shuddery exhale and gets to his feet, dusting the dirt off his butt. They'd been sitting in Stiles' backyard, under the wide oak to which Stiles had lost two teeth, tripping on its roots. He pats the bark fondly, trying to still his shaking hands, and goes inside.

 

His mother is standing at the stove, humming along with the radio as she sprinkles pepper onto the chicken in the pan. Stiles walks up behind her and presses his face into the small of her back, looping his arms around her waist. She startles.

 

“Stiles!” she yelps, her looking over her shoulder at him. Her smile is wide and fond. People always comment on how much Stiles looks like his mother: same wide, brown eyes and moles dotting their pale skin. He likes to blame her for the fact that he can't tan.  
  
“Hey, mom.” Stiles presses his face into her back and just breathes, closing his eyes. She smells like cinnamon and old books, a crisp, dry smell that makes something swell in Stiles' stomach.

 

“Hey,” she says, sounding concerned this time. Stiles hears the click of the stove shutting off and then she's turning, wrapping her arms around him in return. He squeezes tightly and wishes for forever.

 

*

 

Derek arrives with the faint sound of wings. Stiles doesn't look up from where he's been staring at the same page of a book for half an hour. The words are blurry and weird to his eyes even if he hasn't started crying, but he's got to do this, his mom had asked him to do his homework--

 

“Stiles.”  
  
Stiles ignores him, taking a deep breath and blinking. His knees bounce. His lip is being ravaged by his teeth.

 

_I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of…_

 

“Stiles.” he sounds oddly small, but Stiles doesn't care much right now.  
  
 _…an excitement in her voice…_

 

“Stiles.” Derek is in front of him, a large presence that Stiles wishes were _anywhere_ but here right now. For the first time in like, forever, he doesn't even want to _speak_ to his angel. He hasn't been this mad since Derek had popped the tires on the car to keep his family from visiting his cool aunt Theresa.  
  
(Yes, later there had been a ten-car pile up on the highway, but that wasn't the _point._ )  
  
“Will you look at me?” Derekel crouches in front of him, placing a hand on one bouncing knee. He's wearing his normal black outfit, jeans and a t-shirt. (“You're an angel, aren't you supposed to wear bright colors?” Stiles had asked once. His reply had been a blank, uncaring stare, and he'd sighed and draped another gray t-shirt across his arm.)  
  
“Why should I?” The words come without Stiles' permission. They're low and angry and Derek actually flinches. Stiles' eyes flit from the book to the jean-clad thighs on the ground in front of him.  
  
“Stiles,” Derek says carefully, “Everything happens for a reason.”  
  
Stiles snarls and throws _The Great Gastby_. It hits the wall with a satisfying 'thud', leaving a gouge in the plaster. Neither of his parents come running, but then—he _had_ shouted that he wanted to be alone.  
  
“Don't _give me that!_ ” Stiles whirls around on Derek's blank face. “You're an angel! You're supposed to help people, _heal_ people, not let doctors tell them that they've got three months to live!” _  
  
_“ _You_ are my responsibility, not your mother.” Derek's voice is utterly flat. “Your well being--”  
  
“She's a part of my well being!” Stiles shouts. “She's my _mother,_ Derek! And I can't—I won't--” his voice finally breaks. Tears, hot and shameful, rise to his eyes. It's not like he hasn't cried in front of Derek—he has, and it's been really hilarious to watch the angel try to awkwardly comfort him. But this time it's different: Derek is the _cause._ When tries to blink the tears away though, they disobediently fall onto his cheeks.  
  
“Stiles,” Derek says, but this time it's resigned, almost tired.  
  
There's a rustle of cloth and wing, and for a moment Stiles is sure that the angel took off.  
  
But then there's a bare chest pressed against his back and arms hesitantly wrapping around his waist. Stiles is about three inches shorter then Derek and the angel runs a high temperature. It's like being surrounded by a firm blanket. He closes his eyes and lets the tears seep out from beneath his eyelids.  
  
He jumps a little when he feels feathers.  
  
“Keep your eyes closed.” Derek's voice is rough with something that Stiles can't name. He knows Stiles tendency to do just the _opposite_ of what he's asked to do, so he adds, “Please.”  
  
“Derek--” Stiles breathes shakily, blindly reaching out to grasp the feathers. They're suprisingly rough in some places, smoother than silk in others. As he moves his fingers through them, Derek stiffens all over.  
  
“I'm not doing, like, the angelic equal of feeling you up am I?” Stiles mumbles. His cheeks are still wet, but he's reluctant to take his fingers away from the wings to wipe them away.  
  
Instead, another hand comes up and thumbs them away. “You are fine.”  
  
Stiles laughed wetly. He wanted to stay furious at his stupid, stupid angel but he felt his anger fading by the minute, only to be replaced by an overwhelming sadness. “We've talked about the contractions, man.”  
  
Derek didn't reply. Instead, he merely reminded, “Eyes closed,” before his arms tightened around Stiles' waist and he was lifted into the air.  
  
He obediently kept his eyes shut, leaning back against Derek's bare chest as they were guided over to the bed. His busy mind, chaotic mere moments before, was slowly becoming something more drowsy and compliant.  
  
“Stop messin' with my head.” Stiles dug his hands into the feathers, but he didn't tug.  
  
Derek somehow maneuvered them so that the angel's back was against the headboard and Stiles was cradled in the vee of his legs. Stiles leans back and listens to Derek's slow heart beat.  
  
“Be here when I wake up.” It is a command, not a request.  
  
Derek nods against his head. “Okay.” his voice is low and careful, like any louder they'll shatter. A wing twitches, brushing against Stiles' neck. “Okay,” he repeats.  
  
Content—for now—Stiles allows himself to be tugged down into sleep.  
  
The next time that he wakes, Derek is standing at the window looking out into the night. The wings are gone but he hasn't put his shirt back on. His hands are locked behind his back, shoulders straight. He looks like a soldier in parade rest. An odd image, for a guy that appears to be all of eighteen. Derek likes to exercise, the weirdo-angel, so his body is built with muscle. He hasn't shaved in a few days. Stubble lines his strong jaw. Apparently, Miguel would have been a looker if he hadn't died at five years old.  
  
For a few moments, Stiles is content to be sleepy and warm. And then he remembers and he goes cold all over.  
  
“You're going to heal her.”  
  
Derek doesn't turn, but he goes just as stiff as Stiles. “You know that is not an option.”  
  
“Says who?” Stiles challenges. He sits up in bed, sleep forgotten, and lets his feet hit the cold hardwood floor. Something's burning in him, something ugly and all consuming and no amount of wings or sleep is going to change that. Not until his mom is okay. Not until that haunted, hollow look is out of his dad's eyes.  
  
“Says _God,_ Stiles,” Derek retorts, finally turning around. “There is a plan for you, and this is a part of that. If I help your mother--”  
  
“If you _don't_ help my mother I'll find ever dangerous thing that I can possibly do and throw myself into it.”  
  
“You wouldn't do that to your father.”  
  
Stiles' expression doesn't change. “Try me.”  
  
“Stiles,” Derek has gone from just angry to pleading _and_ angry. “You do not understand. I _want_ to help you, and that very concept— _wanting—_ is dangerous for people like me. It only ends in pain.”  
  
“I bet they told you that.” Stiles spits, vile dripping from his mouth. “I bet you've never done something for yourself, not once—you're just a robot, produced to bow and scrape and bend over--”  
  
And suddenly, he can't breathe. Derek has him pinned to a wall, unholy fury burning bright white behind deceptively human eyes. He's trembling all over, like he really wants to put his fist through something.  
  
Stiles isn't an idiot. Once he found out that he had his own personal angel, he threw himself into research. Every source that he could get his hands on he used, including the very first source of all the lore: the Bible. His parents accepted that he was feeling a bit religious when he began walking around with his nose in it. (“Just don't join any cults, son.” “We're in Beacon Hills, Dad.” “Exactly.”)  
  
He'd absorbed the concept of heavenly wrath, raining fire and brimstone and all that. But he'd kind of accepted that it was awesome and moved on. Derek was someone who spoke with the neighbor's cat with disdain, who told him what he was doing was a bad idea but let him do it anyway. He was his protector, and he'd never been afraid of him before. He'd never had a reason to be.  
  
Now, with Derek's forearm pressed against his throat and a supernatural, distinctly smitey look in his eyes, Stiles wonders if he should have.  
  
“You know _nothing_ ,” Derek snarls, his voice ancient and echoing. This isn't Derek-who-secretly-likes-video-games talking. No, this is _Derekel,_ angel of the Lord, and he is _pissed._ Goosebumps fly over Stiles' entire body. “You are but a foolish child, one who's even lifetime is a _drop_ in the sea of my age, my experiences. I have seen war and death and love. I watched the first man take his first breath of air. I have done things that you cannot even comprehend, let alone _understand,_ and I have already _made my own mistakes_.” The air around them whips with gusts, and suddenly Derek's wings are _there._  
  
But they are not white, as the pictures on the internet depict. They're not even black. Near Derek's shoulder blades, they're a mottled mess of gray and black and new, sparse white tufts of feathers, sticking out. The white feathers shine, illuminating the fact that as the wings extend, they grow more and more bare until no feathers are lining the tips of them. Lines of sharp bone extend where the feathers end like pale needles. The wings are twitchy and agitated.  
  
The righteous fury is gone, replaced by age-old exhaustion. The arms that keep Stiles pinned to the wall fall away.“I have known rebellion, and I, as well as others, have paid the price for it. Do not ask me to do it again. Please.”  
  
Stiles stares helplessly at his angel. “She's my mother, Derek.” he whispers. His arms ache slightly from where Derek's pinned him. It grounds him, steadies him when he feels like he can feel the earth spinning.  
  
There's a knock at Stiles' door, interrupting their stare down. The angel's eyes flit to the doorway, then back to Stiles. With an unreadable look, he's gone.  
  
Stiles stares at the spot where Derek had just been. He has more questions than answers, his angel is breaking, and his mother is dying. What. The fuck.  
  
The knock comes again, slightly louder.  
  
Stiles sighs, pushing the issue back. Suddenly exhausted, he climbs into bed again. “Come in,” he calls once he's settled. His voice is slightly scratchy, but whether that's from stress or crying earlier he doesn't know. Maybe both.  
  
The door opens. His mom is standing in the doorway, wearing an old YMCA shirt and worn blue sweatpants. Comfort clothes, Stiles recognizes. He himself is still wearing jeans.  
  
“Hey, kiddo. I thought I heard you get up.” She smiles, but there's some concern there. There are circles underneath her brown eyes, like bruises. Her arms are loosely wrapped around her own waist. Still, there's a tilt to her chin that reminds Stiles that his mother is kind of badass when she wants to be. She's not going to go down without a fight, that much is clear. Something in Stiles chest uncurls.  
  
Taking his silence as an invitation, his mom walks quietly into the room, shutting the door behind her. She climbs into bed without hesitation, and even though he'll be sixteen in a month and she's already a full head shorter than him, he lets her tuck him against her chest like he's five years old and sick with cold again.  
  
His eyes are burning again. There ought to be some sort of rule that puts a limit on tear-duct activity.  
  
“My boy.” his mom rubs a hand over his shorn hair, her side vibrating as she speaks. “My Radsimierz.”  
  
Stiles laughs wetly. “I still don't know what possessed you to give me that name.” He does and they both know it, but they need something familiar right now.  
  
Claudia brushes a hand over his hair again, curling her fingers in a little. Her toes twitch and move under her fuzzy socks.  
  
When Stiles was small and unable to stop moving, she was the one who had held his hand while his father coldly told his teachers that there was nothing wrong with his son. And when he felt like he was going to vibrate out of his very skin, she didn't try and hold him together like substandard tape—instead, she matched him move for move, turning that awkward, unruly energy into something amazing.  
  
No. He was never going to give up on this.  
  
“You weren't a very fussy fetus. I didn't have to eat ridiculous things like pickles with ice cream and rice—no, you wanted cake and cookies and everything that I loved. I got to make the biggest, sweetest cakes that I could put together and eat it _all_ by myself. Morning sickness was practically nonexistent and you saved the somersaults for when I was awake.”  
  
As she speaks, Stiles lets his eyes fall shut, imagining the scenario that his mom is laying out for him. Claudia, eight months pregnant and not expecting him for another thirty days, reading a book by flashlight. The worst storm that Beacon Hills has seenhas rain lashing against the windows and John pacing anxiously in the darkness. The power had gone out.  
  
“We were prepared to wait it out and seek shelter if need be. But _no._ You just _had_ to inherit your father's penchant for bad timing. My water broke.”  
  
His dad probably freaked. He was good in high-stress situations like a robbery or something but give him anything having to do with his wife or son in pain and he was more anxious than a mother with a dozen babies.  
  
“Your dad will say that it's because he was unconscious at the time that I got away with it. Which, by the way, was his own fault for passing out. He was stressed out, but _I_ was the one in labor. Big baby.” Claudia snorts, and Stiles presses his smile into her side. “No, but really, he wanted to name you _James._ A nice manly name, sure, but Jesus that is the most common name on earth.” She sighs. “I can't really blame him, though. His name is _John_ after all—do you know how long it took for me to convince him that you really, really didn't feel like a Jr.?”  
  
It took nearly the entire pregnancy, Stiles knows. When he was little, his mom would tell him a long Rumplestiltskin-esque tale about how his dad wanted to call him John and his mother would suggest a bunch of crazy names instead. “It's only natural that you up and decided that you wanted a different name,” she would say, flicking his nose.  
  
Now, his mom continues. “Your dad was laid out on another hospital bed next to me, bandaged around the head with his mouth slack, and even though I was in pain and exhausted from hours of labor—thanks for that, by the way—I laughed so hard that you slid right out.  
  
“I swear to God, Stiles—you looked directly at me, covered in blood and fluids—and you _smiled._ Glowed with it, like you were more pleased than anything to be alive and here with me.” Her voice began to waver, so she stopped. Took a deep, shaking breath. “And you were my joy. You will always be my joy, my Radsimierz. And I hope, no matter what happens, that you will never, ever forget that.”  
  
*

  


Derek flies to Egypt, then Russia, then to the high mountains and even to the bottom of an Australian sea. Fish scatter, startled by his presence, and Derek looks up at the moon in the sky. The darkness is soothing and the water is cool, but his vessel has to breathe so he moves on.

He flies everywhere and nowhere and tries to _think._ His mind is buzzing, wings twitching agitatedly behind him.  
  
What he has to do here is obvious. Derekel’s job isn’t to keep Stiles’ affection, it’s to protect him. And if that means letting his mother die like she is supposed to, Derek is fine with that. To deviate from the time line—change things that are meant to happen in a Chosen’s life--is death. Derek would give anything to keep Stiles alive.  
  
And yet, the alternative is something that Derek can’t seem to swallow. He can’t imagine Stiles not smiling at him when he doesn’t understand a movie reference. He can’t imagine no days of being alone in the kitchen, swaying to music playing over the radio (“You’re so stiff, Derek, come on, move those _hips._ ”) Stiles is like a sun, bright and wonderful, and if Derek allows this to happen he’ll lose all of that warmth.  
  
He needs to do what he has been told, but he is selfish.  
  
And so, indecision sour in his throat, he flies.  
  
On top of a skyscraper in New York City, Derek silently gazes down at the bright lights of millions of people. If he concentrates, he can see their souls. See those who have corruption stained on them, others who are like bright stars in the solar system, pure and destined for heaven. He can hear laughter and shouting and crying and all of the seemingly insignificant actions that slowly come together to shape who these people are.  
  
Compromised: to be exposed or make liable to danger, suspicion, or disrepute. A good, solid word. And yet it barely touches on Derekel is feeling.

He is compromised, yes, but there are other things tearing through his skin. His grace, which has settled comfortably in this body over the years, feels like too much. He sits where he is and puts his head in his hands.

He cannot seek the other angels’ opinions. Not in this. They look to his for guidance despite his past mistakes, and he does not want them to feel that he isn’t to be trusted. Maybe Castiel would be someone—but no. Derek must figure this out for himself. If he is punished for what he’s going to do, he doesn’t want—

He stops.

_What he’s going to do._

It seems that his mind has already made his decision for him.

Derek laughs. It is a harsh, broken sound that hangs in the air like shards of glass. His wings draw tight to his back, and all of a sudden he is so, very tired. He feels his age even as he tilts his head back to look at the stars above. He remembers lying with Stiles on the roof of his house, pointing out all of the constellations and telling his Chosen stories. Stiles would listen until he fell asleep, warm and curled against Derek’s side, and Derek, reluctant to go back in, would wrap his broken wings around him to keep him warm.

Yes. Derek is a selfish angel.

So he flies back to Stiles’ house and sits at his desk, watching his Chosen sleep fitfully. And then he begins to plan.

*

“So.”

Stiles sits cross legged on the bed, his elbows on his knees. His hair is sticking up in all directions and his voice is scratchy as he tries and fails to keep the hope from rising in him. Derek looks kind of tired and forbidding but he’s _here._

“If we do this,” Derek says finally, his voice hard, “You will do _everything_ I tell you.”

Stiles nods so hard his teeth clack. “I swear, I will, I--” Unable to keep himself still he untangles his legs from the sheets and scrambles across the bed to Derek, where he’s standing. He grips Derek’s arms for balance as he rises to sit on his knees. “Promise,” he finishes.

Derek continues to watch him with those all seeing eyes of his. And then he nods once, a tense thing, and unfolds his arms to rest his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. “You have to be careful,” he says with no room for argument. “You can’t—Stiles.” His voice cracks a little.

“Everything’s gonna be fine.” Stiles rests their foreheads together. “It’ll be good. You’ll see.”

*

Derek heals Claudia while she is in a deep sleep. The Sheriff is curled up to her, frowning even in rest. He makes it so she barely notices that he is there. The sickness is cured with a soft touch of Grace.

The timeline is not a physical thing. All the same, Derek swears he can hear a sharp _crack!_ as he breaks from it. Eyes of his brothers and sisters turn to him and gasp at the same time, and he cuts their connection.

Derekel withdraws and flies back to where his Chosen is waiting anxiously.

“You did it?” he asks, chewing his lip anxiously.

Unable to speak—because they have _broken the timeline, nothing will be as it was meant in Stiles life, already events to take place are slipping from Derekel’s mind—_ he nods.

Stiles throws his arms around him with a muffled shout. He’s babbling with happiness, tears shining in his eyes, and Derek is nearly _climbed_ as Stiles talks about how he _won’t regret it, everything’s gonna be cool, Imma be so careful, Derek, promise._

_*_

Stiles tried to be good. He did. For an entire month he was a perfectly behaved teenager, going to and coming home from school, doing his homework, and basically not getting himself into trouble—all under Derek’s watchful eye.

Seriously. The guy was there _all the time._ He was in the car when Stiles drove to school and when he got out of school. He sat in the living room, invisible to everyone but Stiles while his parents happily ate their dinner. (A miracle, his dad had called it, tears in his eyes, and Stiles couldn’t stop smiling even when his parents kissed in front of him.)

Once, when Stiles slipped on some stray shampoo in the shower, Derek popped up and steadied him. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Stiles’ blush hadn’t faded for _hours._

So basically, he was driving Stiles nuts.

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles coaxed him, shoving him toward the door. “Go and visit Castiel. See Africa for the thousandth time. Go _somewhere._ ”

“And you will stay here?” Derek’s eyes were unsure, but he was breaking. Even angels of the Lord needed their space, and Stiles got the feeling that Derek sat and watched him sleep. Because apparently, there was a chance that Stiles would die in the middle of his slumber.

If they continued on like this, best friend or not, Stiles would _kill him._

So Stiles sent Derek to hang out or whatever angels did with their free time, and he sat down at the desk to do his homework or something. (Or whatever was left of it, anyway.) But first, he was hungry.

He’s in the kitchen digging around for some beef jerky when his dad walks in, talking on the phone. He has that expression that he gets when he’s not paying attention to anything around him. Really, Stiles has no chance of _not_ eavesdropping.

When he hears about the half of a body, Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat. It sounds exciting! It sounds like something to do! And nothing, with the exception of his boring ass angel, _ever_ happens in Beacon Hills—

\--but he promised, Stiles reminds himself firmly, shutting the cabinet. He swore that he wasn’t going to leave the house.

 _You’re so bored, though,_ a tiny voice named Satan Stiles whispers. _And it’d just be a little trip. You could even bring Scott, make it safer. And if you get in trouble, you can always call Derek._

What Satan Stiles is whispering is true. Derek gave Stiles a silver chain with an ink black feather looped on the end.

“If you are ever in trouble,” he’d said gravely, “Hold the feather and think of me. Don’t remove this, Stiles, and do not let anyone else see it.”

“Cool,” Stiles had said absently, running his fingers over it. The texture was _incredible,_ all soft and warm. Derek shivered and slapped his hands away. “Stop that,” he’d said irritably. Which had only made Stiles even more curious about what that little feather could do, really. He feels it now, tucked against his heart and reminding him of his promise to Derek.

But it’s just a little fun. What’s the worst that could happen?

*

Scott and Stiles nearly get eaten by a monster.

An actual monster. Like, _an actual monster_. That’s kind of awesome and terrifying but Stiles is gonna worry about that later, because right now he’s got a very confused best friend and a pissed off angel looking at him.

“Stiles?” Scott’s voice is comically high. “Please tell me that I’m not hallucinating or something because I could have sworn that we were just in the woods running for our lives and now we’re—“ he takes a huge gulp of breath, eyes round, and Stiles, who is internally freaking out, has to cut him off before he can have an asthma attack.

“I have a guardian angel.” He blurts out, stomach threatening to flop out of his body at the same time that a pressure eases. Because lying to Scott, his parents, basically everyone he knew all these years—it had been _exhausting._ He wanted to tell them about the time when Derek helped him learn how to dance for the school Spring Fling, the time they made cookies that came out so well that the angel ate half the batch, about Derek’s weird leather jacket obsession.

Scott stares at him, crooked jaw hanging open. And then he looks at Derek, who has done nothing but scowl blackly since they arrived here. (From the look on his angel’s face, Stiles guesses that he shouldn’t have grabbed the feather. Being eaten by the _thing_ that had been chasing them probably would have been a kinder fate than having to deal with whatever Derek’s going to hurl at him.)

Finally, Scott’s expression becomes slightly cold. “I thought we were friends, Stiles.”

He doesn’t believe him.

“Dude!” Stiles skitters in front of him, limbs flying around with anxiety. “I’m not joking! Derek’s an angel, I swear to God—“

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts, voice warning.

“See! He can’t even stand to hear me say ‘I swear to God’--!” he whirls around on his angel, who still looks utterly forbidding. “Show him!”

For a moment, Derek looks like he’s going to be stubborn. And then he sighs and makes his eyes go an unmistakably unearthly blue. Light glows, and slightly bedraggled shadows of wings lift behind him. Stiles feels his mouth kind of go dry with longing—Derek hasn’t let him touch them since they had their fight. He shoves the feeling away and turns back to his other best friend.

“I think I need to sit down,” Scott says, his normally tan face slightly pale.

Stiles hustles him over to the bed, Derek following silently.

“What even—“ Scott’s breath comes out as a wheeze, and he fumbles for his inhaler. When he doesn’t come up with anything, he looks at Stiles in even more of a panic. “Stiles I—“

There’s a whoosh of wings signaling Derek’s departure. When he returns half a second later, there’s still a frown of displeasure on his face but he’s offering Scott’s inhaler to him. When Scott hesitates to take it, looking at Derek with huge Bambi eyes, Stiles grabs it for him.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, damn near shoving the thing into Scott’s mouth. “Here, just breathe—“

Scott takes three pumps of the inhaler before he relaxes slightly. His eyes flit to Derek’s like a nervous deer even as he nods to the angel. (The nod looks more like a bow than anything. Stiles has to bite his lips to keep from cracking up.

“So…” Scott says when he’s got his breath back. “It seems like _you’ve_ been holding onto this for a while.”

“Dude,” Stiles replies, wiping his sweaty palms onto his jeans, “You have no idea.”

*

The subsequent talk goes surprisingly well. It takes a while and Scott’s eyebrows lift in what he disbelief more than a few times, but they do make before Derek interrupts.

“You need to get home.” He says, addressing Scott and only Scott. It’s pretty clear that he’s still pissed off.

Scott looks at him, slightly anxious at being addressed by the smitey angel of the Lord, but Stiles just looks at the clock. Derek’s right. It’s nearly midnight. “I’ll give you a ride,” he says, sitting up.

“His Jeep is still down at the Preserve.” Again, Derek speaks only to Scott. Apparently, he’s not above the silent treatment. “If you want I can fly you straight to your bedroom.”

Scott clears his throat, looking at Stiles for direction again. Stiles, though, is trying to bore a hole in Derek’s head with his gaze. “That would be cool,” he says finally, obviously going for nonchalance. His voice is a little too high to pull it off.

Scott stands and Stiles gets to his feet to give him a bro hug. After a bunch of obligatory back slapping, they pull away from each other.

“I’ll see you—“ Stiles starts.

A touch of Derek’s fingertips to Scott’s head and they’re gone in a snap of wings.

“—later,” he finishes lamely.

Derek returns about five minutes later. Stiles, who is digging through his drawers to get some sleeping clothes.

He waits for it. For Derek to yell, or lecture, or something other than just being utterly silent. But words don’t come, and when he looks over at his angel Derek is sitting in the corner of the room looking at him.

He’s quiet when Stiles goes for his shower, he’s quiet while Stiles texts Scott a goodnight smiley face, and he’s quiet when Stiles finally gets into bed, shutting off the bedside lamp.

It’s unnerving.

Stiles turns on his side, unable to sleep with the heat of Derek’s glare on him. It’s like a tangible thing and equal parts shame and defiance course through him. How was he supposed to know that there was going to be a crazed monster running through Beacon Hills? It’s _Beacon_ friggin’ _Hills._

“You could have been killed.”

Stiles flinches. They’re the first words that Derek’s said to him in hours. They sound like they’ve been dragged out of him. And the worst part is, he sounds furious, but even more than that he sounds _disappointed._ Stiles has never had Derek disappointed in him before.

He bites his lip. “I was bored,” he offers.

Derek is silent.

Stiles gets out of bed and stands. His pajama pants drag on the ground as he makes his way across the room to his angel, who looks utterly unforgiving even as Stiles kneels to crawl into his lap.

They haven’t done this since Stiles was a kid with nightmares. It’s different now. Stiles can barely make out Derek’s eyes, glowing even in the darkness. He’s longer and broader now, and Stiles’ legs have to go wide to fit around his torso.

He relaxes his body and wraps his arms around Derek’s neck, resting his head in the crook of his shoulder. His heart is beating so fast that he swears he can hear it. Derek’s stubble brushes against his cheek, and he smiles a little as he cuddles closer.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Derek’s hands rest on his back then travel further down, lifting the hem to slide them under. Stiles closes his eyes and lets them rest firmly on the bone of his spine. Supporting. His palms are hot, and Stiles suddenly feels very small.

“That was an alpha werewolf, Stiles. Maddened from grief and hell bent on revenge. He would have either ripped you to pieces or turned you into one of them.”

“I—“ Stiles can’t concentrate.

“If anything happened to you,” Derek confesses lowly, his voice nearly a rumble, “I don’t know what I would do.”  
  
“You’re not going to—“

And suddenly, they’re kissing.

Derek kisses like Stiles imagines he fights. He grips Stiles’ back like it’s territory, hands roving, mouth moving in a _wet slick dirty_ slide of tongues and lips. Stiles is utterly shocked to the core for a moment, and then it registers that _his fucking angel is trying to suck his soul out of his mouth_ and he quickly gets with the program.

The last girl he kissed was Veronica Moore at a party during spin-the-bottle. He feels inexperienced and horrible for a moment, but Derek acts like he’s loving the fumbling attempts at reciprocation. They make out on the floor with Stiles sprawled in Derek’s lap until his lips are sore and swollen and his toes feel like they might be permanently curled.

Stiles pulls back, gasping for breath, and Derek takes the opportunity to press biting kisses to his neck, stubble scratching the skin.

“Derek—“

“Shut up,” the angel commands, sounding downright half wrathful, half filthy.

“I was gonna suggest the bed, but if you want to—“ Stiles’ back hits the sheets before he can even finish the sentence.

“This is so good,” Stiles babbles between kisses. “I never imagined that you’d—that we’d—are we even _allowed_ to—“  


“Stiles,” Derek says in a way that totally implies _shut the hell up._ But Stiles can’t, because there’s something giddy and warm exploding in his stomach and he feels like he could stand up and shout, or burying his head somewhere and sob. He’s _happy,_ he realizes. Even with the shitty turn that his life just took, this is amazing, it’s fantastic it’s—he can’t express it. And he _can’t stop talking.  
_

“Where did you even learn—nngh!”

  
“That’s right,” Derek says warmly, taking in Stiles’ sudden silence with satisfaction. “No more words.”

  
And then he proceeds to make sure that Stiles stays that way.

*

For the first time in a long while, Stiles wakes to Derek in bed with him.

 

Of course, it’s not like the rest of those times. For one, the angel is completely naked. The blue blanket is resting just above the curves of his ass, like this is a Calvin Klein photo shoot or something. His eyes are open, but he seems to be content to just stare at Stiles.

 

“You are such a creeper,” Stiles says fondly. He leans forward slowly, eyes darting up to Derek’s face to make sure that this is okay, that this is allowed. The angel looks at him as if he’s annoyed at his hesitation and reaches forward to curve a hand around Stiles’ skull, drawing him in.

 

It isn’t perfect. It’s messy and still uncoordinated, because Stiles is a quick learner but tongues in mouths are kind of hard to navigate. He has morning breath and Derek’s stubble had left him with burn marks all over his face and thighs. They hadn’t talked about this: hadn’t puzzled it out and digested it and made sure that it was okay with God.

 

But it was theirs. And Stiles would do whatever it took to keep it.

 

*

 

The alpha werewolf seems to set something off in Beacon Hills.

 

Suddenly there are ghouls and vampires and leprechauns. Derek comes back with a bloody angel blade, expression darker and darker as time goes on.

 

Derek gives Stiles the gun on a cool May afternoon. He’s got a scar across his ribs that is still healing and they’re lying on Stiles bed, staring at the ceiling with their fingers entwined. You wouldn’t think that earlier that afternoon, Stiles had run over a pair of dwarves with his Jeep. Scott had helped it wash it off, unusually quiet.

 

Stiles couldn’t blame him. Shit had gotten real.

 

“It’s my Grace,” Derek explained. “After the first monster, I sent out a flare that has some parties…interested.”

 

Apparently these ‘parties’ were also demons. Stiles hadn’t met one yet (and according to Derek, he never would).

 

“It’s of the utmost importance that they don’t know I’m Watching you, Stiles,” he said, voice serious. These days, his voice was always serious.

 

Stiles takes the cool metal of the gun and turns it over in his hands. His dad took him to the gun range from time to time. He’s a decent shot, which Derek obviously knows.

 

“Great,” he says without enthusiasm, “I get to spare my Jeep.”

 

Sometimes, when things get a little hairy (like the time with the rugaru, which, Stiles even going to into that) he catches glimpses of other angels. One with a shaved head and dark skin, who plunges a knife into monsters’ backs without expression. Another, curly haired one with a cherubic face who winks at Stiles before he blinks out of sight. And of course, one who Stiles guesses from the trench coat is Castiel. They never linger, never say hello.

 

Derek’s shrug was half irritated, half grateful when Stiles asks. “They aren’t supposed to let you see them,” he says. “Let alone interact. That I broke the Timeline gives them even more reason to stay away.”

 

“And yet,” Stiles points out, poking his angel in the cheek, “They still help.”

 

They’re a part of the puzzle that is Derek’s involvement with Stiles. So he watches whenever he can, and without knowing why, feels like something’s coming.

 

*

 

Months later, a week before Stiles’ seventeenth birthday, Derek tells Stiles a story.

 

It begins with Creation. Not the Creation of earth, which he has heard over and over again. But the Creation of Heaven and the angels. The Lord’s first born were manifested in legions.

 

In the very first of these waves, the archangels were born. There were eleven more, one after the other. New brothers and sisters were taught of their Father’s glory by the others, having never seen their Father themselves.

 

Derek’s first memory went back millenniums. Talia, an angel born of the second legion, was one of the many assigned to raise fledglings into the warriors that they were meant to be. He lived in a nest with four other fledglings: Castiel, Cora, Lauriel, and Peter. They were all born in the very last legion.

Michael was bright and shining and wonderful. He shone less than Lucifer, the Morning Star, but he had wise eyes and spoke regularly with the Father. Every once in a while, he would fly through the fledglings’ nests and look over them with a protective eye. He seemed fond of the youngest legion in particular. Luciferwas aloof, but Gabriel is also kind to be around. Raphael, the middle child, is sharp: they loved her but avoided her all the same, as she was prone to assigning tasks when she spied idleness.

It was in Michael's arms that Derek watches his father shape the earth, seas, and stars. There were animals: strange, four legged things that destroyed as often as they created. Plants sprung from the ground, green and thick with fruits hanging heavy. Night was given the dark and day was given the light.

With the archangels’ permission, Derek and the legions went down to marvel over their Father’s inventions. He found that liked to watch the animal that the Father Called ‘wolf’—Castiel laughed when Derek tried to mimic its howl.

But the Father was not done. Like the painter who makes a final, finishing sweep of a brush, God created Man.

And God saw all that He had made, and it was good.

But it wasn’t.

The Morning Star was no longer the apple of the Father’s eye. Jealousy was not a fault that began with Man—it teemed in angel and human alike, and Lucifer felt it sorely.

There was war. Brother fought brother. Sister fought sister. The heavens clashed with a mighty roar, and in those thousands of years nothing was certain. The very ones who Derek was meant to love fell at his own blade. The taint of evil spread like an infection, taking those who succumbed into its hungry maw without mercy.

And then came Abbadon.

She had seen the error of her ways, she whispered to him. She wanted to go back to serving her Father, not the traitor. Derek did not believe her, but he remembered when she was a fledgling herself. She had dipped a toe into the first of the seas and made face, not enjoying the cold. Her caretaker, Gerariel, had called her back to the group. Before she’d completely joined them, she had picked a rose and held it close to her chest.

Their orders were to kill any rebels. Instead, Derek brought her back to where the members of his nest were stationed between battles. Then, he and Castiel left to go and retrieve a general to evaluate her.

When he'd gotten back, their home was in flames. The Holy Fire had reflected in his eyes as it burned down his places, his nest mates trapped inside. He’d frantically tried to go in, save the angels who he could hear screaming, but Castiel had retrieved him, put out the flames on his burning wings, and held him as he’d sobbed.

They won the war, but even thousands of years later Derek would remember the screams. Abaadon was banished to Hell with Lucifer and his circle by Michael.

After the war, the Father fell silent. Michael was to command the angels in the masses. But he was weary: he saw heaven restored and the legion reunited.

And then, without a word, he Fell.

*

“So you're telling me,” Stiles says, quiet disbelief coloring his words, “The archangel Michael is somewhere down here, wandering around?”

“Yes.” Derek's chest rumbles where Stiles is leaning against him. His homework is sitting in his lap, forgotten in favor of Derek's Creation story.

“But you said he was dead.” he accuses.

Derek sighs. His voice is still patient, though, when he replies, “He didn't _die_ in the human, traditional way: he cut out his Grace by choice. To do so is considered the equivalent of death for most angels. Angels who are rid of their Grace become mortal.”

Stiles has a thousand questions, each on of them tripping over each other in his mind. He has to bite his lip and think before he decides on the most important one. “So he's just wandering around on earth like an angelic tourist or something?”

“You were born on the twenty-ninth of September.” Derek says quietly.

Startled by the sudden change of tone, Stiles turns around in Derek's arms. The angel's eyes are oddly luminescent in the darkness, always have been. Instead of finding it creepy, Stiles always took an odd sort of comfort in it.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I know. I was there.” he attempts humor, but Derek's serious expression doesn't change.

“Do you remember when you were in the eighth grade and you had to find three important things that happened on the day you were born?”

“Creeper angel,” Stiles accuses. He'd forgotten all about that. It had just been some 'Getting to Know You' project that their homeroom teacher, Mr. Vera, had assigned at the beginning of the year.

Derek just waits.

Finally, Stiles rolls his eyes. “I do,” he mutters. It had been one of those days when Mom was too busy for anything but half-yelling at people at her office, so his dad had been the one to make him sit down in front of a computer and hit the research. Together, they'd clicked through article after article. When they got hungry, John got up and made them some burned grilled cheese with Coca Cola. It had been a good day.

“What do you remember?” Derek asks. Stiles straightens into a more comfortable position in his lap.

“Well,” he says, brow furrowing slightly with memory, “Italy declared war on the Ottoman empire. It's the official coffee day, which is kind of awesome. And Christians celebrate this holiday called Feast Day, otherwise known as--” he cuts himself off, realization slamming into him.

“Michaelmas,” Derek finishes gently. “You were born on Michaelmas, the day of the Feast of the Archangels. It is also the same day that Michael fell.”

“Like, a thousand other babies were born on that day.” Stiles' laugh comes out a little hysterical. “It's not a special thing, Derek.”

(Except that he had sat in front of the computer screen for hours, wondering if there was a connection, and dismissed it as nothing.)

“It wouldn't be, normally. But you, Stiles, along with six other human infants were born with a mark on your souls.” He lifts his hand away from Stiles' hip, dragging it along his skin until it's settled directly over Stiles' heart. His gaze doesn't lower as he slowly draws what feels like a backwards three on Stiles skin.

“You were Chosen, Stiles,” he says, eyes still locking the teenager in place. His heart is jumping in his chest, but the rest of his limbs have gone oddly still. He can't move, couldn't even speak if his life depended on it. “You carry the mark of Michael. On your seventeenth birthday, the prodigal son shall emerge from one of his Chosen vessels and return to restore order in heaven. Seven angels were assigned to protect the Chosen until they came of age. I was assigned to you, Stiles.”

He curls his fingers into Derek's skin and just breathes for a few, long moments. And then he pulls back, making sure that his expression is carefully shuttered. It won't do much for Derek, who has admitted that he has empathic abilities, but he at least wants to have _some_ semblance of a shield. He feels shaky inside, his world taken and scattered like an open box of puzzle pieces on a roller coaster. Normally he would hide under Derek's scarred wings.

Now, he needs time.

“Can I be alone for a few hours?” he asks, pulling back and out of Derek's lap. He settles with his butt against the heels of his feet, legs folded beneath him.

Derek looks kind of gutted. “Stiles--”he stops himself. Breathes. “If that's what you want?” he says tightly.

“Hey.” Stiles leans forward and presses a kiss to the angel's lips. He's hot, almost to the point of burning, but when he returns the kiss almost desperately Stiles doesn't mind at all. He breaks the kiss, panting, and leans his forehead against Derek's.

“I need to think, and you need to let me do that. By myself. Okay? You can check in if you want, just—I need--”

He isn't sure what he needs. But he knows he's not going to find it if he's distracted. And he's trying really, really hard not to be angry because this—this is a _big secret,_ like, something that Stiles would have loved to know years ago and--

He just needs to think.

*

Derek’s gone for about ten minutes when Stiles starts to feel suffocated.

 _Of course,_ when he's in the local grocery store with a six pack of Mountain Dew bottles in one hand and a Snickers bar in the other, a female voice would lean forward and whisper, “That's a pretty little Mark you've got there, darlin'.”

 _Of course_ he doesn't have time to shout, let alone grab a stupid feather before he's whisked away to what looks like a freaky basement.

And _of course_ his kidnapper grins at him with a bright, lipsticked smile right before she touches surprisingly gentle fingertips to his head and sends him into the black.

*

When he wakes, he's strung up to the ceiling with leather cuffs like a slab of meat. He's alone in the room, which is starting to look more and more like a torture chamber with every other blink. Everything's dark and dusty, making him want to sneeze and cough at the same time. Squiggly lines—sigils, he reminds himself—are spray painted in red on the moldy walls. There's a table with a huge, clunky looking silver instrument that doesn't look too promising. He follows the trail of the cords all the way to...

...his side. They're taped to his side with some sort of tape that barely moves when he squirms. He's seen enough movies to know what that means.

Fuck.

“I've never felt more like a raw cow,” he says aloud, even though his insides feel kind of trembly. His parents have to be worried sick. _Derek_ has to be worried sick.

But the soft pressure of the necklace around Stiles' neck is gone, so he's on his own. He inhales, ignoring the ache of his wrists and how all of the blood has rushed to his feet, which are dangling off the floor. Like she couldn't just let him stand or something.

As if the crazy broad has been summoned by his thoughts, the black, crusty door in the far corner of the room opens.

“I'm sorry about the, you know,” she gestures to Stiles' cuffs, a small smile on her gorgeous face. She has honey brown eyes and darker hair, pale lipstick on her lips. If she weren't possibly some kind of monster, Stiles would admire her.

But like he said. She's nuts.

“You don't look very sorry,” Stiles replies snarkily.

The woman pouts, walking slowly over to him. She looks like she's got all the time in the world. “Really? That's harsh. I happen to consider myself an excellent actress.” She comes to a stop about ten feet in front of him, one hand casually resting on the hip of her skinny jeans. The other pokes him in the hip, the touch sharp.

“So here's what we're going to do, Radsimierz—your name is Radismerz, yes? I thought they had made a typo on your license at first, but from the look on your face--”

“It's Stiles,” he bites out in reply because he hates, _hates_ the way her voice sounds saying his true name.

“Radismerz, then,” the woman says easily, brushing off his anger like you would a fly. “Here's what we're going to do. You're going to call your pretty little guardian angel for me. I had to ditch the feather—wouldn't want someone tracking us, would we? But if you call, I've got a sneaking suspicion that he'll come.”

For half a second, Stiles is tempted to call Derek just to watch him get his smite on. This isn't the first time that some moron has told him to call the angel just to pay for it in blood later on. But something stops him.

The woman looks too confident. Not the brash, ugly confidence that got all of those monsters killed: no, this is a cool certainty that she'll be able to handle whoever will arrive for Stiles.

Stiles doesn't like it.

“I think I'll pass,” he says, licking his dry lips. “You're so pretty—and I really don't like to share my toys, even if this toy in particular _is_ bat shit.”

“Oh, Stiles, hon',” she actually laughs. “I knew from the moment that I saw you that you'd be a challenge. But that's okay. I like challenges.” she pokes him one more time and walks away to round the table, a small smile on her lips. “You sure you don't want to reconsider?” she asks airily. “From what I've experienced, most humans have a surprisingly low pain tolerance. It's what I'm counting on, actually.”

So she definitely wasn't human. Bad to know.

“I don't think my angel would be suited for this particular party.” Stiles' body is tensing up with anticipated pain, a steady mantra of _don't call Derek don't call Derek don't call--_

“Well, you can't say that I didn't try.” She flips a switch and a machine tries to hum. “Can I let you in on a little secret, Radismerz? Your angel probably never told you this—they're a closed mouth bunch, really—but three things can bring them to their charge's aid. A prayer--” she flips another switch and the machine gets even louder-- “A feather from an angel's wings--” she lifts her hand to put it on a chrome colored lever-- “Or screaming.”

She shoves the lever up, her teeth bared. Electricity crackles and jumps, flying from the machine through the cords duct taped to Stiles' side.

And Stiles screams.

*

Derek is dragged away from Castiel through space and time and dumped on to the dank floor of a basement. Sigils hum on the wall, sapping his power even as he shoots to his feet, whirls around and lifts his blade just in time to keep a silver sword from being embedded into his vessel.

He looks up into golden brown eyes and _knows._ She may be in a different body, but there's no mistaking the cloud of red under the possessed body.

“Abaddon,” he growls, shifting into a fighting stance.

“Derekel!” The demon's voice is absolutely delighted. “I'd hope to get an angel, but _you,_ darling? Oh, it must be my lucky day.”

They start to circle each other. Derek wants to look back at his Chosen, who's body is projecting extreme pain, but he refuses take his eyes off Abaddon. He made that mistake once. He'll never do it again. Stiles is silent, most likely unconscious from the pain.

“First,” the demon continues, voice taunting, “I'm plucked by the archangel Raphael himself with orders to slay Michael's Chosen--”

“That's a lie!” Derek snarls. Abaddon takes his lapse of concentration and uses it to her advantage, darting in to swipe at his neck. Derek brings his blade up, swiping the blow away, and wrenches his midsection back, twisting to try and get a blow in. Kate gracefully evades, sword swinging, and manages to cut his left arm.

Derek's vessel bleeds, which is expected. That it keeps bleeding is not anticipated. The area around the wound slowly starts to gray.

“Do you like it?” Abaddon asks him as they circle once more. “It was a gift from the heavenly weapons keeper, Virgil. You recognize it, don't you Derekel?”

He did. And he knew that time was running out.

With a shout, Derek began to fight in earnest. Abaddon's taunting shut up with the volley of blows that she had to block and avoid, but her mouth was still twisted into an insolent grin, hair whipping . She managed to grip Derek by his jacket and threw him into the table holding the machine.

There's a sharp cry just before something _snaps_ and static electricity starts to travel down the cords. Stiles' body jerks and twitches, eyes rolling.

“Stiles!” Derek shouts, flying to him. He grips the cords and rips them away, placing his hands on Stiles' sides to heal him, the Chosen's eyes on him--

And Kate's sword plunges through his back.

*

Stiles doesn't blame Derek. Honestly. From what he'd seen when he'd groggily opened his eyes (his whole body one, big aching nerve), the angel was kind of fighting for their lives. So when he accidentally turns on the electrical thing again, Stiles doesn't hate him much (doesn't have the capacity to hate, really what with the sporadic jerking of his limbs and the hysterical screams trying to claw their way out of his raw throat).

But he does hate Derek for not watching his back.

He does hate the woman for plunging a sword through his back and out of his chest.

And finally, he hates himself, because he can do nothing but sit and watch as Grace starts to shine from around the sword and his angel gapes at him as if he can't believe that they're here.

“Derek,” Stiles sobs, lips bloody from biting on them to stifle screams. “ _Derek_.”

The sword slides out of Derek's body with a wet squish. Derek doesn't heal—he slumps to the ground, his head hitting the concrete with a _crack._ He blinks up at Stiles, eyes glowing, and lips moving soundlessly. Barely inches away from Stiles and he can't do anything—just sit here and cry like some heroine in a bad romance novel and he's helpless, Stiles hates to be helpless and--

Abaddon crouches and leans over Derek's body, her hair brushing his face. She looks kind of messed up, littered with cuts and places where red mist is seeping from her body, but she's still smiling as she leans over him and whispers something too low for Stiles to hear.

His heart feels like it's cracking to pieces in his chest. He heaves out gasping sobs, hurt and confusing and exhausted and _losing his fucking angel._

Grace, a bright, cold blue starts to flow out of Derek's body. But instead of fading, it starts to travel through the air in a steady stream. Tears streaming down his face, Stiles watches its progress until it comes to a stop in front of him, as if waiting.

“What are you doing?” Abaddon's voice is sharp and shrill. “Derekel, what do you think you're--”

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles sobs, and the Grace _enters._

Lightning strikes cobalt and white behind his eyes. And Stiles takes the backseat in his own body.

*

Michael wakes in a vessel full of pain with a demon crouching in front of him over an angel's dead body. The demon's expression is contorted in rage, evil pulsing in her like a heart beat.

“No!” she is shouting. “This can't be--”

Michael tires of her voice very quickly. He inhales, feeling the scalding warmth of his Grace around him, all six of his wings flexing. And then he exhales, letting it flare a little.

The demon screams and turns to ash.

That is better.

Michael pulls his wrists away from the chains holding him, breaking them easily, and catches himself as he falls to the ground. He looks at the second body.

An angel. But—not quite. He has nearly no Grace and is bleeding the red blood of God's human children. Indeed, Michael can feel the angel's missing Grace humming through his veins. Compared to Michael's power, it is a mere grain of sand on a beach. But it is still there.

Michael knows this angel. He walks closer, noting the way the boy is pale and still in death. Michael finally recognizes the Grace.

“Derekel,” he says.

When he says the name of his brother, a grief that Michael hasn't known since Lucifer was locked away rushes over him. His vessel's eyes water with the intensity of it, wave after wave pouring down on him. He closes his wings around himself like a fledgling, discomfited.

“Derek,” he tries again.

This time, the name fits.

Michael walks over to the one who's sacrifice brought him here and kneels. There is only the faintest imprint of wings on the concrete floor, Derek's Grace too depleted to offer anything more.

He had thought himself so clever. Out of his mind with grief and tired, _so, so_ tired, Michael had left Heaven. But he hadn't entirely deserted his brothers and sisters. It wasn't in his nature.

And so, he had Marked seven children. A promise that one day, he would return.

But he of all beings knew that nothing was promised. As nice as the idea that he would be able to emerge when he was ready was, he was a realistic person. And so, he installed a fail safe.

As he presses a hand to Derek's chest, he can hear the whispers of his brothers and sisters. Every song, every celebration, every hiss of dread is noted and taken.

But for now, he needs to do something.

He closes his eyes, searching for that tiny bit of unfamiliar Grace. When he finds it, it comes to him willingly, pressing against him like a trusted friend. He caresses it, oddly reluctant to let it go, then sighs and gives it back to its rightful owner.

The moment that all of the Grace is back in Derek's body, he gasps awake, his body flying upright and his sword in his hand.

“Derek,” Michael says commandingly.

Derek's head snaps toward him, his Grace flaring in his eyes. Michael remembers when he was a fledgling, tripping over his own wings. They are back to their former glory now, their imperfections smoothed away by Michael’s caress.

“Brother?” Derek asks, sounding like the youngest of the angels that he is.

“It is me,” Michael confirms. He puts a hand on Derek's shoulder. The younger angel's vessel is dark haired and light eyed, covered in blood.

“Stiles is--”

“My Chosen is fine.” Michael notes the frown that flits across Derek's face before it disappears. Interesting.

He offers his brother a hand. Derek hesitates, glancing up at him and down again before he takes the offered hand. Michael pulls him up easily.

“Is there something wrong?” he asks, tilting his head when Derek does not quite look him in the eye.

Derek hesitates. “It's nothing,” he says finally. “I just—it's odd. Seeing Stiles like this. You like this.”

Michael does not understand. “I suppose you will have to get used to it,” he says finally. “I am not strong enough to continue on without a vessel. I will not be for a while yet.”

The admission of weakness is supposed to make Derek relax a little. It has the opposite effect.

Michael is puzzled until nearly a month later, after dealing with Raphael and letting Gabriel have his rest, and punishing those who have been disloyal. He is sitting in his section of Heaven, alone for once, and is watching a memory of his vessel and Derek as they watch some sort of game. Their fingers and legs are entwined, and every so often they will kiss, Stiles breaking off with laughter that scrunches his cheeks.

It is something to think about.

*

When Derek is summoned by Michael, he has to admit that he's nervous.

His sister, Cora, is with him when the messenger arrives. He bids her goodbye and rises to his feet, following Bariel to Michael's chambers.

“You wanted to see me?” Derek asks when the doors are shut behind them.

He hasn't been actively avoiding Michael, but this is the first time that he has seen the archangel since they arrived in heaven. Part of it is that the older angel was busy. The other part is that Derek can't stand to see Stiles face and know that that isn't really _Stiles._

They move differently, talk differently, even look different. Michael's eyes glow. He smiles less and when he does, it's different.

Stiles' parents believe him to be missing and/or dead. Derek stands in the corner of the living room as Claudia Stilinski cries her eyes out, more helpless than the Sheriff. They are looking everywhere, but the police can't reach heaven. He has not visited Scott.

Seeing Michael is knowing that Stiles is well within reach, but at the same time he might as well be dead. And so, Derek tries not to see.

“I never did explain to you how you brought me back before Michaelmas.” Michael says to him now. He is dressed in a tailored suit: yet another thing that throws Derek. (He's not even going to mention the six wings in Michael's back.)

Unsure of what to say, Derek waits. After a moment, he continues. “There is something to be said about sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice.” Derek repeats.

“An angel's Grace is the most precious thing to them,” Michael says, as if it is the simplest thing in the world. “It is their essence, their power, their immortality. Only in the most desperate of times would they willingly give it to someone else. You gave yours to Stiles.” he looks at Derek meaningfully.

Another reason for the avoidance is that Michael would have access to every memory that Stiles has. The angel shifts uncomfortably, looking for words to explain himself. When he finds none, he lifts his chin.

“I don't regret it. I never will.”

And Michael...smiles. “I would not want you to,” he says, almost gently.

While Derek is still looking at him in shock, he goes on. “Erica Reyes is my Chosen who Boyd was to watch over, is she not?”

Thrown by the sudden change in topic, it takes Derek a moment to respond. “Yes.”

“She has a good heart. A strong one, wouldn't you say? Dealing with a sickness of the body all her life, yet surviving admirably.”

“I honestly don't know where you're going with this.” Derek says. Then he ducks his head. “I apologize. Time on earth has made me more...blunt.”

“No need to apologize. I am drawing this out unnecessarily. And your time on earth is one of the reasons why I am asking you to be an ambassador of sorts for me.”

Derek is speechless. “I--” he looks into Stiles golden-blue eyes and feels himself falter.

“You would be with Castiel,” Michael says. “So you would not be alone. And of course, if Ms. Reyes accepts my proposal to her, you would have the additional job of guarding Stiles here.” Michael smiles. “I would hate for a vessel of mine to be damaged.”

Derek can't speak. He's afraid his voice is going to break. Instead he strides over to Michael in three fierce steps and hugs his brother like he's a fledgling again. Michael laughs with Stiles' voice and hugs him back.

*

“So?” Stiles asks, sounding cheerful. “Ready to officially meet the parents?” He's still wearing the tailored suit that Michael had put on him. He promises to let Derek burn it later on, but for now there is nothing else.

In reply, Derek pulls his Chosen to him and kisses him until they're both breathless. Stiles grins at him, cheeks flushed and healthy, and turns to open his front door.

“Mom? Dad? Guess who's home and bringing an angel to the par-tay?”

*

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank the academy.
> 
> No, seriously though, I could have not gotten through this Big Bang without my awesome artist, delacours, some heavy music, and lots of Supernatural daydreams about Castiel. 
> 
> He's so dreamy...but I digress. 
> 
> This idea came to me, oddly enough, while I was listening to Eminem. He has this song called 'When I'm Gone', and one of the lyrics are: "When you that they're your heart, and they know you are their Armor. And you would destroy anyone who would try to harm them.' 
> 
> Which got me thinking. What kind of love would it take to do that? 
> 
> This, and copious amounts of Supernatural, led me to writing this for the last Teen Wolf Big Bang. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoyed! And please go and like, reblog, etc. my girl delacours' work on Tumblr because she did an awesome job. Listen to the fanmix! You won't regret it.
> 
> http://werewitches.tumblr.com/post/70487767001/stiles-is-one-of-the-seven-chosen-children-born  
> http://werewitches.tumblr.com/post/70488487480/ellie-goulding-my-blood-jessie-ware-wildest
> 
> She's also on livejournal and AO3: 
> 
> http://delacours.livejournal.com/3123.html  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1088630


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